


A Matter of Trust

by mylifeinshadow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Post-Episode: s06e12 One Son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-23 19:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeinshadow/pseuds/mylifeinshadow
Summary: Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making it personal. But it feels a lot less like misguided paranoia and a lot more like six years of mutual trust and respect thrown right out the window.





	1. Chapter 1

You slam your apartment door shut and kick off your heels the second you’re through the entryway, anger and disgust churning through your gut, fueling each other on.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are making it personal. But it feels a lot less like misguided paranoia and a lot more like six years of mutual trust and respect thrown right out the window. And for what? He’s willing to jeopardize six years of partnership for this woman? Because she has legs up to her neck? Because she used to fuck him? Big deal. You could fuck him way better than —

That unproductive thought is best left unfinished, you decide, as your lower belly ignites with a new emotion you refuse to give a name to.

“Fox,” you force out with a sardonic laugh, the words sounding so wrong coming from your lips. Not like Diana, who uses his name every chance she gets. Because that’s professional, right? It doesn’t matter that they’ve known each other for god knows how long. Using first names in the field? You’re convinced that she does it just to throw you off. You wish it didn’t work. But, God, it does.

How does Mulder not see through this? How can he just ignore the fact that she set him up? He’s a profiler, for God’s sake, and he’s absolutely blinded by this woman. What the hell kind of hold did she have on him to make him this naive — to make him this doubtful of his own damn partner?

What bothers you most is just how stupid you feel. You allowed yourself to trust him, unconditionally. You allowed yourself to care for him. You even thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something else happening between you; that years of tension were finally coming to a head. He told you he loved you, goddammit. And, okay, maybe he was doped up to the eyeballs with morphine when he said it. But the look on his face. So fucking earnest, and you can’t even be blamed if maybe you prayed to your God that he meant it.

Holding onto a kitchen chair for balance, uncomfortable nylons meet the same fate as your heels, discarded somewhere near the entryway. Next comes your blazer as you settle down onto the couch. Elbows resting on your knees, you press the heels of hands into your eyes. Already, you can feel one hell of a migraine coming on, and you can’t decide what’s worse — the pounding of your skull or the lump that you find building in your throat.

A knock at the door pulls a bitter laugh from your lips. There’s only one person that could be. Just so happens to be the last person you want to see right now. For a brief moment, you consider ignoring it altogether. The only thing that stops that train of thought is the reminder that he has a key and the gall to let himself in.

As expected, you find him on the other side of the door, and he doesn’t feel the need to bother with formalities as he brushes beside you to enter your apartment. Not for the first time, you want to hit him, wish you could bring yourself to hit him, wish he didn’t look so fucking good so disheveled — suit coat long gone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Make yourself at home,” you mutter sarcastically under your breath, fingertips rubbing at your temples in an attempt to soothe the oncoming migraine.

“Listen, Scully. I don—” he begins, words trailing off. His fingers pause from their attempt to loosen his tie when he finally takes in your appearance. You probably look about as good as you feel right now — bloodshot eyes and all.

“You okay,” he asks instead, and you almost forgot what it was like to show concern for anybody other than himself and that woman.

“Peachy,” you grumble, and it’s almost satisfying to see the flash of anger in his eyes. You watch closely as his jaw tightens, knowing from experience that he’s trying desperately to hold back. Clearly he didn’t come over here to pick a fight, but suddenly that’s all you want to do.

“What’s wrong with you?” It’s almost as if he senses that you’re ready for a blowout, his words ensuring that you’re going to lose your shit.

“What’s wrong with me?” You can’t help but laugh incredulously. “I don’t know, Mulder. Maybe I’m just bitter. Maybe I just realized that I have spent the last six years putting my trust and faith in someone who clearly can’t offer me the same in return.”

He groans, drags a hand over his face thirdly. “Scully, this thing with you and Diana—”

You cut him off right there. “With me and Diana? There is no thing between me and Diana. If you’re mind is so clouded by the need to get laid, so be it. But leave me out of it.”

You’re not sure which one of you is more surprised you actually uttered those words, but from the looks of it, they certainly had the effect you’ve been looking for. He’s absolutely fuming. Jaw tight, fists clenched, anger flashing in his suddenly dark eyes. Good.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is booming, and you have to remind yourself to keep your feet planted firmly to the ground, in an attempt to keep yourself from backing away from him. You’ve seen him mad before. You’ve seen him absolutely lose it. But this? This is something else entirely.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Scully,” he growls, stepping into your space, and this time you can’t help yourself from backing yourself up against the door. You can almost feel his chest rising against yours with every labored breath he takes. Unwilling to show how affected you are, you jut your chin out defiantly.

He chuckles darkly; sees right through you. You try your damnedest to bury your emotions and keep your face neutral, but you feel completely naked, the way he’s reading you. Your knees grow weak and to your extreme embarrassment, your panties grow wet, your cunt contracting around an imaginary intruder.

Completely unable to trust your own voice, you move to turn away from him instead. You can’t have moved more than an inch before a firm hand is on your jaw, warm breath on your lips.

“How do you not get it? How do you not know—” His free hand presses against your hip and your mind goes numb, focusing on sensation alone. The whimper that escapes is completely involuntary, and you’d feel absolutely mortified had it not spurred him on.

“Christ, Scully,” he rasps, fingertips digging into your hip. And before you can even begin to question it, his lips are on yours.

It’s a desperate tangle of lips and tongue and teeth, and you swear you can taste his need. His hands leave your jaw in favor of tangling in your hair, his hips pressing you against the door. The shock of his impressive erection pressing into your belly has you pulling away to cry out your pleasure. His mouth never halts, tongue and teeth licking and nipping at every inch of skin within his reach.

A sudden breeze alerts you to the fact that your skirt is hiked halfway up you hips, a strong thigh pressing between your legs. If the grunt against your neck is anything to go by, that very same thigh has just discovered the moisture pooling between your legs. He pulls your hips down at the same moment you attempt to pull his mouth back to yours, and the jolt has you tugging hard on his hair. Judging by the groan that leaves his lips, he doesn’t seem to mind, his dark eyes meeting your own as he grinds into you again.

Your attempt to grind down again is halted, his hands steadying your hips. You whimper, damn near feral with need. “Please,” you gasp, desperate for the contact. You’ll do anything — anything, for the pressure return. You tug at his hair again, attempt to thrust your hips against his own.

“Mulder,” you beg, the strong hands holding your hips against the door only adding fuel to the fire. He nips at your lips teasingly, and you’re certain that you’re going to burst if he doesn’t touch you within the next five seconds.

“Fox,” you try, and just like that your hips are freed. The air around you is cold without his warm body pressed against yours. Icy cold dread sinks into your bones when your eyes finally focus on him, ten steps back and looking like you just shot him.

You try to clear your mind — grasp desperately for anything you can say to make this better. But confusion fogs your brain, and before you can reach him, he’s rushing around you and through the door.

Your allow yourself to sink down onto the floor, feeling more empty and alone than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Monday now, two days since he left you solus and wanting just beyond your apartment door. You can't help but think that this is the first time he's left you alone on a weekend since your cancer diagnosis, and even then, he would casually check in. But you've seen hide nor hair from him in over 48 hours, and you're terrified of knowing just what that means.

But sure enough, upon opening that basement door, he's seated at his desk. Your stomach flips unbearably at the site of him. You've gone through every emotion you imagined possible over the last two days – from righteous anger, to regret, to heartache and back again. At a certain point, you found yourself wondering if your mind invented the entire scenario. It would have been plausible too, if you couldn't still taste his tongue in your mouth – couldn't detect his scent on the blouse you can't bring yourself to wash. 

His eyes don't even so much as flit in your direction as you walk into the office, and you immediately find it unfair that he can remain this unaffected while you're mid crisis. 

"Good morning," you offer, and to your complete surprise, your voice doesn't even waver at all. So this is what we're going to do, you think, just act like nothing has changed — like everything hasn't changed. 

In return, you get a mere nod of acknowledgement, a file passed over to your side of the desk, and a suggestion to pack your parka. Florida. Hurricane. Perfect. 

You spend the majority of the case attempting to get back home. You're not sure if it's the close proximity to the man who continues to pour salt on your freshly wounded pride, Arthur Dales, or the realization that this drunk old man may very well be Mulder in 30 years that is giving you such a strong instinct to flee. In any case, you would have preferred not to spend a second longer than necessary in the panhandle state. Of course, that whole plan goes to shit when you find yourself having to deliver a baby and collectively save everyone's asses simultaneously.

At least Dales seemed impressed, even if Mulder didn't. Even if Mulder flat out denied needing saving. Even if Mulder clearly was holding a grudge against you for something that he started. 

Your patience is wearing extremely thin, as is your ability to keep up this charade. The moment it's just the two of you again, you visibly deflate. Between the events of the last couple of days and the mask you've polished to perfection in an attempt to seem completely unaffected by your partner and his angst, you find yourself absolutely exhausted.

The news of the flight's delay due to downed powerlines and area flooding are just the icing on top of the cake. By the grace of god, you're able to find a relatively intact motel for the night, but not before the tension mounts to a near explosive level. 

You're doing your best — really, you are. But then you're stepping into the puddle he's parked your rental into, leaving your shoes and hose ruined. In your haste to remove your foot from mucky, cold water, you drop your suitcase and it opens on impact, spilling your belongings into the aforementioned puddle. 

Mulder at least has the respect to look sympathetic, but in your current mood, it only serves to further piss you off. Before you can even begin to react, he's bent down, piling your belongings back into your suitcase. You roll your eyes at his chivalry and spring to action, grabbing a blouse and a pair of panties from the ground and shoving them into the case. With a huff, you pick up your bag and your dignity and march your way over to the room without so much as a thank you. 

Shoes, coat and hose are discarded the moment you step inside, and you find yourself near tears as you stare uselessly at your luggage. This just fits the theme of the entire trip, you think, as you attempt to turn on the radiator. You figure you can use it to at least attempt to dry some of your clothes, but as the appliance clicks and stutters before giving up entirely, you strike that idea off the list.

The rapping on the adjoining door reminds you where your sour mood has come from, and you're left damn near seething as you march your way over. As always, Mulder has impeccable timing, and as you open the door, you find your smug looking partner offering up a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. 

The events of the last few days catch up to you all at once, and you find something inside of you coiling up tight, begging for release.

"I'm fine," you spit, too damn stubborn to accept his charity, but your clothes and dripping on the floor and regret is churning in your gut, and you wonder how the hell you two got here — if you've always just been one woman away from being strangers. 

Before you can even take note of him moving, his hand is grabbing your elbow and your body is twisting around to face him, and you're wondering just how many times you've been here before — torn between wanting to punch him and kiss him. You're so sick of feeling this way; so sick of doing what comes easily, and before you know it, your hands are in his hair and your balancing on the balls of your feet as you reach up to kiss him.

His surprise is short lived, and you rejoice when you feel his hands at your hips, the same spot that's been burning to feel his touch again for the last four days. You almost expect to be drunk with this — on the feeling of his body pressed against your own, of his tongue sweeping the roof of your mouth, but you're more clear headed than you've ever felt in your life. Its everything you never knew you'd been aching for, and it's absolutely nothing like you ever imagined late at night, tangled in sheets with your hand between your legs and his name on your lips, but somehow, it surpasses even your wildest expectations.

There's strong, firm hands cupping your ass and tongue and teeth marring the skin of your neck, and you feel like you could cry with the relief of it, but you don't dare to ruin this. Not again. His erection presses against your hip, and you briefly wonder if he always has to be angry to get hard, because if that's the case, you've got years of ammunition. 

"Scully," he murmers into the bruised flesh of your neck, and you do your best to ignore him, unwilling to accept the end of this. But his lips make no attempt to move as they nip at your pulse point, so you squeeze your eyes shut and focus on sensation alone. 

"Scully," he tries again, but when you feel him moving away, you panic, attempt to push his head back down to your collarbone. He stops you, one huge hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, and you're left gasping, much to his obvious amusement.

Any thought that he was putting an end to this is silenced as his fingers flex once around your wrist before releasing to toy with the bottom button of your blouse. You fight the urge to weep, the tantalizing view of your shirt bunching around his thick wrists, fingertips brushing against your belly almost too much to bare.

The sudden sensation of a thumb brushing over your nipple is your undoing, the hands that were previously clutching uselessly at his shoulders now pulling at the back of his shirt, drawing it quickly over his head and off. 

It isn't the slow, sweet, loving seduction you thought it would be. It isn't tender, gentle exploration followed by leisurely love making. No, it's a mad rush of trembling fingers, fumbling to undress one another. It's thighs hiked around his waist, fingers tightly clutching your ass. It's the sting of your walls stretching to accommodate him as he enters you for the first time, nails and teeth biting into his flesh. It's his hips slamming against yours, your back slamming into the wall. It's the growl of a voice you've never heard before, praising you, your body, how good you feel — the high pitched response you barely recognize as your own voice. It's _harder, more, right there, yes yes yes._

It's _Mulder._ And that thought alone is your unbreaking. 

The keening wail of your release nearly deafens you, your tight walls gripping to keep him close as you gasp through the aftershocks. You find yourself pleading, begging for him to give himself to you. 

No one else will ever have you — not like this, not like he does. You find yourself telling him this, gripping his sweat slicked hair as the echoing sob of his release calls you home.


End file.
